Distraction
by allthingsdecent
Summary: After Bombshells: House and Cuddy have an unexpected encounter. [This plot description intentionally left vague. LOL]
1. Chapter 1

"This is bullshit!" House said, waving his approval form in the air.

Cuddy, who had been sitting at her desk with something of a thousand-yard stare, snapped out of it.

"Huh?" she said, blinking at him. "What's bullshit?"

"The fact that you didn't check the little box on my approval form next to the words 'nerve biopsy'. That's what the box is there for."

"A nerve biopsy is premature and we both know it," Cuddy said. "You haven't even tried nerve stimulation yet."

"Nerve stimulation is for doctors who don't have the balls to do a biopsy."

"Still, I would prefer that you. . ."

"Just because you're angry with me over our breakup, that's no reason to take it out on my patients."

"I'm not angry with you, House. You're angry with me, remember? Isn't that why you even created this ridiculous little approval form? To avoid direct contact with me?"

It was true. Seeing her at the hospital had become increasingly painful. So he did something he never thought he'd do—he created more paperwork for himself.

"Well, I'm talking to you now, aren't I?" he said, snippily.

"Yes, unfortunately," Cuddy said. Then her shoulders slumped in defeat. "Go ahead, House. Do your biopsy."

"Thank you," he said. He started to storm out, then stopped in the doorway.

"Wait," he said, as if something had just occurred to him. "What's wrong with you?" His voice had changed quality, from combative, to nearly tender.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know. When I came in, you looked really out of it. And you just caved on this biopsy way too quickly. Did something happen?"

She rolled her eyes a bit, annoyed at his ability to always read her.

"I don't want to talk about it."

He took a few steps toward her.

"Tell me," he said.

She hesitated.

"A friend died."

"What friend?"

"No one you know. Her name was Abigail Schroeder."

"Your lab partner in high school?"

She started a bit.

"How on earth do you remember that?"

"I don't know. You told me her name once, I guess. How did she die?"

"Car accident. She got side-swiped by a semi. The driver fell asleep at the wheel. They said she. . .died instantly."

He swallowed a bit.

"Cuddy, I'm sorry."

"She had two small children," Cuddy said. "Two little boys." And she put her head in her hands and, much to his horror, started to cry. House moved to her, his hands suspended over his shoulders uselessly, wanting to touch her, console her, but not sure if he should.

"Is there anything I can . . . do?" he said instead, withdrawing his hands.

She looked up—her lashes were beautifully wet, like some sort of close-up of raindrops on a blade of grass—and gave a wan smile. "No, I'm fine. I'm sorry. I thought I was all cried out. Guess not. You don't need to hover."

"I feel like you shouldn't be alone right now," he said, studying her.

She snorted a bit.

"Like you're so good at comforting me," she said. It was a cruel thing to say. She immediately regretted it.

"I'm sorry," she said. "That was totally unnecessary. I'm fine House. Go do your biopsy."

"I'll . . . try the nerve stimulation first," he said.

#####

Worried about her and frankly too distracted to sleep, he decided to stop by her house and check in on her that night.

When she answered the door, he saw that his concerns were founded. She was wobbly on her feet, and her breath smelled of alcohol.

"What are you doing here?"

"I was just. . .I. . was worried that you. . ."

But before he could even form a coherent sentence, she grabbed him and began to kiss him, roughly, wantonly.

He was so shocked that that his surprise synapses fired more quickly than his lust synapses.

"What are you doing?" he said.

"Shut up, House," she said, and she maneuvered him against a wall, devouring him, losing herself in his flesh.

He recognized what this was, because he had done it so many times himself—a way to distract from the pain (of all the methods, sex was possibly the most efficient—and certainly the most pleasurable.)

So he put aside his own doubts, his own shock, and kissed her back, felt that familiar electrical jolt of desire when his hand met her skin. His mouth moved from her lips to her neck to between her marvelous breasts. Then he picked her up and carried her to the bedroom. She let out a little sound—half an expression of desire and half impatient relief.

Never had chasing his own orgasm been so conflicted. He knew she was using him. But he also knew that he wanted her, badly (more than even before, because she had been his and had been cruelly taken away). So he put aside his doubts and lavished attention on every inch of her perfect body, sucking her, kissing her, stroking her, thrusting inside her deeply, an attempt to feel like they were once again an "us."

Afterward, he tried to hold her in his arms, but she pulled away.

"You should go," she said.

"I'd rather stay," he said. Three months of anger had floated away. He felt as madly, unconditionally in love with her as ever.

"But you can't," she said. "I want you to go."

He looked at her, hurt, but she was already gone—lying next to him in the bed but a million miles away.

"Okay," he said.

He got dressed, sullenly, waiting for her to say something: "Thank you." "Let's do this again." "You always know exactly what I need."

But instead she watched him, as impassively as a john watching his hooker leave a hotel room.

"Good night," she said.

######

The next day, as House was doing a differential, she hovered in the hallway, waiting for him.

He saw her, and a blush crawled up his neck.

"BRB," he said, stepping into the hall, as his team watched the scene with unchecked curiosity.

"I wanted to apologize for last night," she said.

"No need to apologize," he said.

"And I need you to understand that it was a mistake," she said, looking him in the eye. "I was very emotional, as you know. And drunk. And I was looking for. . ."

"A distraction?"

"Yeah."

"I understand," he said.

She bit her lip.

"It's not going to happen again. Do you understand that?"

"Yes."

"I regretted it immediately."

He folded his arms defensively, but didn't reply.

"And I'm very, very sorry if I've misled you in any way."

"You didn't," he lied.

"Good."

"Are we done?" he said, annoyed.

"Yes."

"Good, cause I gotta get back to my team. The nerve stimulation didn't work, by the way. It was a colossal waste of time." He scowled at her and went back into the DDx room.

######

Three days later, predictably, he was back at her doorstep.

She sighed a bit when she opened the door.

"What do you want, House?"

He shrugged.

"I was in the neighborhood," he said.

"And?"

"And just thought I'd swing by," he said. "See how you were."

"I'm fine," she said.

"Can I come in?" he said, peering into her living room.

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"I'm thirsty," he said. "I drove all the way over here. You can't even get me a drink?"

"You just said you were in the neighborhood."

"Figure of speech," House said.

"House, what do you think is going on here?"

"I think I'm checking up on a friend."

"We're not friends."

"We were pretty friendly the other night," he said, raising his eyebrows a bit.

"I told you, that was a mistake."

"Why?"

"Because we're done. I broke up with you. With good reason. And everything you've done since the breakup has only reinforced that I did the right thing.

"But we're so good together," he said, reaching for her waist.

She backed away.

"No, we're not. House, go home. I'm serious. Listen to me. I'm sorry. Honestly I am. But what happened the other night is not going to happen again. Ever."

He started to say something in protest, then stopped.

"Fine," he said. And limped back to his bike.

######

That was May. In June, she would hear the rev of an engine, look out the window and see an orange blur come to a near stop, then speed away.

"You've got to stop driving by my house," she told him.

"I didn't!" he protested. But they both knew that she knew he was lying.

In July, House called her, half dead from his bathtub. Then, a few days later, they talked, _really_ talked for the first time since the breakup and she felt so relieved, so grateful to him for releasing her from her burden of guilt, that she forced herself to look forward, and go on a date with Julia's friend.

And then, of course, it all went to hell.

######

"Jesus, Wilson. Would you stop calling me? The feds almost definitely have your phone bugged."

"House, did you even listen to any of my messages?"

"No, I assumed they were just you yelling a lot."

"You're not under arrest. The feds are not looking for you."

"What part of fugitive from justice didn't you understand?"

"House, Cuddy didn't press charges. She made a deal for you. You'll only need to do outpatient rehab and anger management classes."

"Bullshit."

"It's true."

"But…why? She must hate my guts right now."

"I don't know House. I'm as baffled as you are. Where are you anyway?"

House hesitated.

"Is this a trap? Is there a cop standing next to as we speak?"

"House. I'm your best friend. Yes, you shattered my wrist in 10 places and I needed reconstructive surgery. . ."

"Fuuuuuck."

"Yeah."

"Can you still play the violin?"

"Hilarious. I actually do surgery sometimes, in case you forgot."

"Have you regained full motility?"

"Not yet. But I will."

"Good," House said, sounding genuinely relieved. "I'll pay your medical bills. Needless to say."

"Needless to say," Wilson agreed. "But my extreme anger at you notwithstanding, I'm still your friend. I'm not going to turn you over to the cops."

"Oh no, because you would _never_ do that," House cracked.

"That was different! That was a deal! I thought I was helping. . ." He stopped himself. "We've been through this before."

"Okay, maybe I believe that you can find it in your giant bleeding heart to forgive me. No way Cuddy doesn't want to see me burn," House said.

"Maybe she thinks you belong in rehab, not jail."

"She thinks I belong in a Russian Gulag."

"House, here's a thought: Come home and ask her why she chose to show mercy on you."

House scratched his head.

"How's her, um, dining room?"

"Totaled. She's staying with Julia while they fix it."

"And Rachel?"

"She's three. She thinks she's on vacation."

"And Boy Wonder?"

"What?"

"Cuddy still seeing that little dweeb?"

"House you need help," Wilson said. "Which is why you should come home. Now."

"It's nice here," House said, reflectively.

"Your apartment is here."

"I could sell it."

"Your medical practice is here."

"There are sick people everywhere. Even paradise."

"I'm here."

"That's why Steve Jobs invented the telephone."

"Cuddy is here."

House paused, looked out at the rippling waves of the ocean.

"I'll be on the next flight out."

#######

"Hi," House said, standing in Cuddy's office feeling completely ill-at-ease.

He'd been back in the States for a few days. He'd met with the lawyers and with the feds. The terms of his plea bargain were this: Outpatient rehab three days a week; anger management one day a week. ("But what if I'm angry about being sent to anger management class?" he had quipped.)

This was the first time he had seen her since he got back from Fiji.

"Hi," she said. She had a nearly invisible way of gathering her nerve when she was about to have a serious conversation—she would straighten her back a bit, clench her jaw, inhale. She did those things now.

"Close the door," she said.

He did, obediently, and sat across from her.

He realized that he should probably go first.

"I want to apologize to you," he said. "What I did was….well, frankly, it was insane. Rivaling, 'I see dead people' for the most insane moment of my life."

"Yes, it was."

"As is often the case when I do insane things, I was high as a fucking kite."

"I know."

"I'll do whatever it takes. Beg, grovel, rebuild your dining room with my bare hands. I just hope you can find in your heart to forgive me."

"I can't."

He looked up, surprised.

"Wha—?" he said. "Then why did you. . .why didn't you press charges?"

"Because…I'm pregnant."

[Sorry about the familiar cliffhanger. Circumstances so different here, I thought I could get away with it…And, spoiler alert, no miscarriages this time.]


	2. Chapter 2

House's mouth dropped open.

"Is it…?"

"Yes, House. It's yours."

"That means you're 65 days pregnant!" he said. "That's good, right?"

Cuddy allowed herself the tiniest of smiles.

"Yes, it's good."

"You're not even showing," he said, still astonished. "It barely looks like you had a big lunch."

She touched her belly. "I'm not totally out of the woods yet. But this is the definitely farthest I've ever carried."

House gave her a blissed out, awed grin.

"I'm so happy for you," he said.

"Yeah," she said. "Me too."

"Marry me!" he said, impulsively.

She literally recoiled.

"You've got to be kidding."

"That's our baby you're carrying. I love you. I love Rachel. And I know some part of you still loves me. Marry me."

"You drove a car through my dining room!"

"And I'm sorry about that. I swear I'll never do anything like that again."

"House, we're not together like that. We're never going to be together like that again. You need to get that through your head. We had one momentary indiscretion that resulted in this pregnancy. I'd like to think now that it was . . . meant to be on some level. But if you think that this means that I'm going to love you again, be with you again, you are sorely. . ."

"Then why bail me out?" House said, bitterly. "Why not just let me rot in jail?"

"Because, whether I like it or not, you're going to be the father of my baby. I don't want you having a criminal record."

He folded his arms, poutily.

"So what next?"

"What's next is, I hopefully deliver a healthy baby."

"That's what I hope for, too," he said, sincerely.

"I know you do."

"And where do I fit into that?"

"I don't know House. Once you complete rehab and anger management, we can talk about visitation rights, if that's really what you want."

"Of course it's what I want."

She eyed him. "You never seemed that keen on having children."

"Those were hypothetical children. This is my actual child. And you know how much I love Rachel…"

"Okay. Fine. We'll work something out. But letting you into this child's life does not mean letting you back into my life."

"Yeah, you made that pretty clear."

She looked at him.

"The thing is, House, I don't even know who you are anymore," she said.

He swallowed hard.

"I'm still me."

"The Gregory House I knew would never resort to violence."

"That wasn't violence!"

"What would you call it then?" she hissed.

He thought for a moment.

"Controlled aggression."

Her face turned red.

"If you start telling me some bullshit story about how you calculated the torque and the velocity and the impact and knew you weren't going to hurt anyone, I swear to God, House, I will call the DA and get you throw in the jail. . ."

He bowed his head.

"I never wanted to hurt anyone. . ." he said, softly.

"You were out of your mind and out of control!"

"If I had hurt you, I don't know what I would've done," he said. "Killed myself probably."

He was looking for sympathy, which she clearly was in no position to give.

"I guess we'll never know, will we?" she said, coldly.

He scratched his head.

"When's your next appointment with Dr. Carlisle? You're going to Carlisle, right? She's the best."

"It's none of your business which obstetrician I'm seeing," Cuddy said.

"Of course it is."

"House, I'll tell you everything you need to know. When I find out the gender, I'll tell you. When I find out my due date, I'll tell you. If there are any complications, I'll tell you. Otherwise, I want you to stay out of my pregnancy."

He swallowed hard.

"I just want to help," he said.

"You can help by leaving me alone."

The muscles in his neck clenched. He was trying very hard not to cry.

"What about gossip at the hospital? You gonna admit to the shame of it being my kid?"

She jut out her chin.

"No one needs to know but us."

He blanched.

"Jesus Cuddy! People are going to put two and two together when you pop out a little blue-eyed genius."

"I've done in vitro before. It's not inconceivable that I found a . . . suitable donor."

"Wow, you really hate me, don't you?"

"If I hated you, you'd never know this baby was yours," she said.

######

About a month later, Barry Adams from the hospital's IT department paid Cuddy a visit.

"We've had some disturbances with the system," he told her.

"Disturbances?" she said. "What kind of disturbances?"

"Someone seems to have hacked into the obstetrics files. It wasn't a major breach, but it's something we're going to need to keep a close eye on. I'll just monitor it, unless you want me to get the authorities involved?"

Cuddy rolled her eyes a bit.

"That's okay, Barry. I'm pretty sure I know who's responsible."

After he left, she stormed down the hall to House's office, slamming the door.

"Did you hack into the hospital's mainframe to look up my medical files?"

"Maybe," he admitted.

"Maybe?"

"Okay, yes. All this radio silence is driving me nuts."

"So your solution is to break the law…again?"

"Our system is so easy to hack it barely counts as breaking the law. We really need a new IT department. . . " He looked up to see if she was amused, she wasn't. Then he looked down at his hands. "I also saw that you were a little anemic," he said.

"And that's why I'm on extra iron supplements now."

"And you're keeping up with your folic acid?"

"House, I'm fine. Everything's fine, as you obviously know since you _read my file_!"

"And…" he looked up at her with hurt eyes. "It's a boy."

She pursed her lips.

"I was going to tell you."

"When?"

"When I got around to it."

"A son," House said, almost to himself.

"Yeah," Cuddy said, not able to resist a tiny smile. "A little boy."

"Have you thought of any names?"

"It's the Jewish tradition to name the child after your closest dead relative, which is my father of course."

"You're going to name the kid _Seymour?!"_

"We just use the first letter. So I was thinking…Samuel."

House nodded.

"Sam. I like it."

"What a relief," she said.

"Do you need anything from me? Late night pickle runs? A Lamaze partner? Help painting the nursery?"

"I'm not craving pickles. I'm not doing Lamaze—that's for people with a loving partner." She let her words sink in before delivering the final blow: "And the contractors who rebuilt my dining room are also building the nursery."

He gulped.

"You still haven't sent me the bill on that," he said meekly.

"Don't worry," she said. "I will."

"For the nursery too," he added.

She ignored him.

"How's rehab going?" she said instead.

"Good," he said. "You could practically eat off my liver it's so clean."

She nodded. "And anger management?"

"Fine. It's not the best place to make friends, though. Turns out, it's filled with angry people."

"Including yourself," she said.

"Everyone's angry about something," he said. "The key is not letting the anger control you. I understand that now."

"You think spouting bits of hackneyed wisdom from group therapy is going to impress me?"

"Cuddy, I'm trying here. . ."

"A court ordered mandate is not exactly my definition of trying. . ."

"What do I have to do to get back in your good graces?"

"Nothing," she said. "Just keep doing what you're doing. You hold up your end of the bargain and I'll hold up mine."

######

By now, all of PPTH was abuzz with news of Cuddy's pregnancy. She made a point of telling her most gossipy nurse that she had gone through a sperm bank and it worked like a charm. It was as if she had just issued a hospital-wide press release.

So now, rather than assume that House was the father, a new rumor started that he was sterile—and that his inability to give her a child was the real reason Cuddy had dumped him.

"How you holding up?" Wilson asked House, his voice dripping with concern, a few weeks after Cuddy had made her announcement.

"I'm fine," House said cagily. "Why?"

"I don't know. You seem kind of blue. Rehab. Anger management. It's a lot to take. And it can't exactly _help_ your state of mind that Cuddy is pregnant."

"I'm happy for her," House said.

"Is it true you two tried to get pregnant when you were together?"

"Really Wilson? Do you believe all the hospital gossip? Because I'll start a rumor that asking me annoying questions over lunch gives you anal leakage."

"I'm just worried about you."

"I'm fine. Cuddy is getting what she wants. And what she deserves."

"And you?"

"I'm . . . also getting what I deserve," he said.

A few days later, Wilson stopped by House's building, unannounced.

He heard loud music blaring (The Who's Quadrophenia) and what sounded, incongruously, like the sawing of wood from inside House's apartment.

He banged loudly. Then banged some more.

Finally, House answered.

He was wearing a carpenter's apron and had a table set up in his living room, where he seemed to be doing some sort elaborate woodworking project. There was a big pile of sawdust on the floor.

Once he let Wilson in, he immediately went back to sawing a piece of blond wood.

"What the hell are you doing?" Wilson yelled, over the cacophony.

"I'm building a cradle," House said.

"What?"

House put down the saw, rubbed his hands on his apron and turned off the music.

"I'm making Cuddy's little bundle of crap a cradle."

"You _know_ how to make a cradle?"

"No, but they have these things called books. They teach you things. "

"Where did you get all this equipment from?"

"I stole it from some guy's shed."

Wilson shot him a look.

"Just kidding. I know a guy…"

"You always do."

He walked up to the table to get a better look at House's progress.

"Huh, that's actually pretty good," he said.

"It's a start," House said.

"So you think a hand-crafted cradle is the way back into Cuddy's heart?"

House shrugged.

"I just thought it would be a nice gift," he said.

"It's just so out of character for you," Wilson said. "I've never known you to be into all this baby stuff. I figured you'd get her something wildly inappropriate, like a set of knives."

House shrugged again.

Then, suddenly, Wilson gaped at him.

"Oh my God," he said, getting it.

"What?" House growled, almost daring Wilson to say what he was thinking.

"There was no sperm donor."

"Of course there was sperm donor. How else would she have. . ."

"It's _your _baby."

"Do the math, Jimmy boy. Cuddy and I broke up in March. It's October and she's five months pregnant."

"Weren't you once extolling the virtues of breakup sex to me?"

"Oh yeah, because Cuddy and I have been getting along so great since the breakup. Besides, haven't you heard? I'm shooting blanks."

Wilson slumped down onto House's couch with a slightly dazed look in his eyes.

"It all makes perfect sense. Cuddy has been so reserved around me lately, like she's afraid to say the wrong thing. You've been moping around like a lost puppy. And now this ridiculous…cradle. Tell me the truth."

Realizing that Wilson hadn't just had a hunch, he'd had a revelation, House sighed heavily and came clean.

"It was in May, obviously," he said. "A good friend of hers died. I went over to her house, she was looking for a little cold comfort. Which I was all too happy to provide for her. . ."

"And suddenly you're not just the guy who drove his Dodge into her house," Wilson said. "You're the father of her unborn child who drove his Dodge into her house. That's _why_ she didn't press charges."

House gave a half-shrug of agreement.

"You can't tell anyone," he said. "Not a soul."

"That's not fair to you, if you don't mind my saying so."

"Cuddy doesn't owe me anything.

"Of course she does. It's called parental rights."

"Co-parenting is going to be a bit awkward, since she's barely speaking to me. Not that I blame her. . ."

"Still. . ."

"I asked her to marry me," House said, in a voice dripping with self-loathing. "Can you believe that?"

"Oh House…"

"Her exact words weren't, 'When hell freezes over' but it was implied."

"I'm sorry."

"But she said I can see him," House said, looking at his feet. "We're going to set up a visitation schedule, once I'm done with rehab."

Wilson looked at him, with pity.

"That's good," he said gently. "When does that end?"

"No set timetable. I've gotta pee in a cup for at least six more months."

Wilson nodded, then gave a wistful smile.

"So Lisa Cuddy and Gregory House made a baby together. What a remarkable thing."

"Yeah," House said sadly. "A remarkable thing."

#####

The cradle arrived at Cuddy's doorstep a month later.

It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship—so smooth and seamless, it was like it had been carved fluidly from one piece of wood. House had placed a little navy blue gingham blanket in the bottom along with a lace pillow.

He included a card.

"For Sam, love his dad."

The card inexplicably brought tears to Cuddy's eyes, which she hastily wiped away. Then she ran her hand over the smooth wood and picked up the phone.

"I got the cradle," she said. "It's beautiful. But you shouldn't buy such expensive gifts."

"I didn't buy it," House said. "I made it."

"Shut up!" She was so surprised, a bit of girlish flirtation had crept into her voice.

"It's true," he said, feeling lighter than he had in months. "Turns out I'm a halfway decent carpenter."

Cuddy had to suppress a laugh. Halfway decent, her ass. It looked like something you would see at an upscale craft show.

"Don't tell me you hand knit the blanket and the pillow, too," she chuckled.

"Negative. Bought those online."

"Thank God," she said. "Well, I'm putting it in Sam's room now. I love it."

"You think maybe I could come over….see the nursery?" he asked hopefully. He winced a bit, anticipating her reply.

"I don't think that's a good idea, House," she said.

"No," he said, trying to mask his disappointment. "Of course not."

There was an uncomfortable pause.

"How are you feeling?" he said.

"Like a beached whale," she said.

"You look beautiful. I'm not sure if it's okay to say that. But I've been . . .marveling over it."

"It's . . . okay to say that," she said.

"Good."

"But I should go."

"Okay. . .good night, Cuddy."

"Good night, House."

To be continued…


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: To the **_**extremely helpful person**_** who commented about Dominika. You're actually right. I couldn't decide if I wanted her in this fic so I left it vague. But a decision has been made! Dominika is officially NOT in the world of this fic. Just assume House was being an immature, pill-popping, hospital-sabotaging, attention seeking jerk after the breakup. But he did not marry a hooker this time around. I just . . . can't. **

**Also, I leave for London and Poland tomorrow. Hope to write the fourth and final (I think) chapter in the airport and on the plane. If not…hello, 11 day fic hiatus. Pray for us all.- atd**

"Wow, look at you!" Wilson said, beaming at Cuddy as she joined him in the cafeteria for lunch.

"It just kind of . . .happened. I went to bed barely looking pregnant and woke up looking like the octomom," Cuddy cracked.

"You're beautiful," Wilson said, taking her in. "And. . .glowing."

"A secret: Pregnant women aren't actually glowing. We're sweating. It's hot carrying around another human."

They grinned at each other. Then Wilson said: "I saw the crib that House built you."

"Yeah, that was something else, wasn't it?"

"He worked hard on it."

"I know he did."

"He's working hard in general. Really trying to be a better man."

Cuddy cocked an eyebrow.

"Your point?"

"No point. It's just that he's very happy for you, you know? I hope you realize how happy he is for you."

Cuddy's face fell.

"That little shit," she said.

Wilson blanched.

"What?" he said, innocently.

"He told you, didn't he?"

"Told me what?"

"Don't play dumb."

Wilson scratched his head.

"He didn't tell me," he finally admitted. "I figured it out. I mean, he turned his living room into a woodshop for a month. There was sawdust between the cushions of the couch!"

"I knew this was going to happen," Cuddy said, putting her head in her hands. "You haven't told anyone, have you?"

"No. Of course not. He swore me to secrecy."

"Good."

"He also told me that. . .he proposed to you."

"An impulse. Not completely unlike driving a car through a house."

"Now that's just mean."

"Look, I know he means well. But a trust has been broken between us. And I'm not sure we can ever get it back."

"You're going to have to try. For the sake of Sam."

Cuddy snorted.

"House has no interest in being a father to Sam."

"Of course he does."

"He just sees it as another way to get back in my pants."

"That's horribly unfair."

"Well I'm sorry if I'm disinclined to give him the benefit of the doubt."

"House had a complicated, troubled relationship with his own father, as you know. I think he would relish the chance to do it right."

"We'll see…" Cuddy said.

"Has there been any thaw between you two at all?"

"Well, I don't reflexively duck and cover every time I see him now. So that's progress I guess."

"Cute, Cuddy."

She sighed.

"Of course there's been a thaw," she said. "A part of me will always love House, even when I . . . hate him." She gave a grim laugh.

"He made a mistake."

"No. Getting off the wrong exit on the highway is a mistake. Forgetting to pick up milk on the way home is a mistake. Driving a car through a house where _my daughter could've been_ is deliberate act of violence and revenge."

"He loves you. . ."

"Well, he has a funny way of showing it," Cuddy snapped. Then she collected herself. "Look, I don't want to talk about House. He makes me tense and that's bad for the baby."

"Okay, but I have to ask. What are you going to do about Sam's birth? House is going to want to be there."

"He can't," Cuddy said, horrified.

"He can't?"

"For a variety of reasons, including the fact that it will revive rumors that he's the father. House can come see the baby when I'm receiving visitors, like everyone else."

"He's not going to like that," Wilson said.

"I honestly don't care," Cuddy said. "This may sound selfish, but I've got to do what's right for me and my baby right now. I know House wants to be there. Maybe even deserves to be there. But being around House is not good for my peace of mind."

"So who's driving you to the hospital if you go into labor at night?"

"My sister can. Or my mother, I guess."

"I could do it," Wilson offered. "I live 5 minutes away."

"Really?"

"Yeah. It works on two levels. I get to witness the blessed event and I can be House's eyes and ears on the ground, as it were."

"That's actually…a really great idea," Cuddy said.

"Then it's settled," Wilson said.

"And maybe you could be the one to break the news to House that I don't want him there for the delivery?" she said, coaxingly.

"Do you have any full body armor I can borrow?"

"Maybe all the anger management classes will come in handy."

"One can only hope."

#####

In fact, House was surprisingly sanguine about the news, even relieved that at least he would have an ally in attendance.

"So you'll give me updates by text?" he said.

"I'll inform you of every contraction," Wilson said.

"And photos? Not of her cervix or anything—although it's a lovely cervix."

"Ew."

"But, I mean, like, pictures of the baby. The minute it's born. Placenta, umbilical cord, the whole bit."

"It'll be like you were there."

"Okay," House said. Then he sighed. "It's probably for the best. I'm not so great for Cuddy's blood pressure these days."

Wilson raised an eyebrow, impressed, but said nothing.

And then, two months later, at about 10:15 pm, Wilson got the phone call.

"My contractions are five minutes apart," Cuddy said. "I think it's go time."

"I'll be right over!" Wilson said, feeling his heart pound in his chest like it was his baby, not House's.

"Don't speed," Cuddy said. "I'm fine."

Of course he ignored her, speeding through town, running run lights. He met Cuddy at the curb, where she was standing with her bags packed, looking as calm and unperturbed as a business woman waiting for a taxi to the airport.

"Let's go make a baby," she said.

######

_W: Congratulations Papa._

_H: Holy shit. Look at that little bugger. _

_W: He's a healthy, bouncing baby boy. _

_H: Thank fucking god. Weight?_

_W: 7 pounds, 4 ounces._

_H: 10 fingers? 10 toes?_

_W: The complete set._

_H: And Cuddy? How'd she do?_

_W: She was a champ._

_H: No surprise there. _

_W: She's holding the baby right now. They look like Madonna and child. _

_H: Don't get carried away Wilson._

_W: Seriously House. They're incredible together._

_H: Send me a picture._

_W: Umm, let me check._

He looked up from his phone.

"House wants a picture of you and Sam. Is that okay?"

Cuddy nodded.

She tilted Sam so his face was toward the camera, then gave a tired, but sweet smile as Wilson took the picture. He sent it.

_W: You still breathing?_

_H: I'm just. . . holy fuck. Look at that._

_W: Yeah._

_H: That's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen._

_W: I know it is, buddy. I know. Look, they're kicking me out of the room. Cuddy needs her rest. You'll get to meet him tomorrow._

_H: Wilson?  
_

_W: Yes House?_

_H: I'm a dad._

_W: I know you are, pal._

He put the phone in his pocket.

"Did he get the picture?" Cuddy said.

"Yup."

"What did he say?"

"That it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen."

Cuddy nodded, smiled a bit, and wiped a stray tear from her cheek.

#####

The next day, there was a flurry of activity in Cuddy's room as friends and colleagues came to visit the baby.

House, holding a stuffed hedgehog, was among them.

Cuddy wanted to let him get to the head of the line, but doing so would raise suspicions. As far as the hospital was concerned, she and House were barely talking. (Which, in fact, was not completely inaccurate.)

But she made eye contact with him and gave him a smile that said, "I wish we could be alone," until it was his turn to shuffle up to her beside and meet his son.

"You want to hold him?" she said.

"Can I?"

"Of course."

He held out his hands for the obligatory squirt of hand sanitizer.

She handed him the baby. He looked down at the little bundle, awed and abashed and grateful. He couldn't stop staring.

"Hey, let somebody else hold him," Chase cracked.

House looked up from his daze.

"Right, of course," he said.

He handed Sam back to Cuddy. He didn't want to leave the room. He wanted to stay there all day, basking in it all—the well-wishers, the balloons, the blissed out look on Cuddy's face.

But he knew he couldn't.

"Congratulations," he said to Cuddy.

"Thank you," she said, nodding meaningfully at him.

He left the room, limped down the hall, his head swimming with a strange mixture of elation and sorrow.

He passed two nurses gossiping at the front desk.

"I heard Dr. Wilson was there during the delivery," one nurse said.

"You think he's the…?" the other nurse replied.

The first nurse raised her eyebrows provocatively: "I'm just saying. I never bought that whole in vitro story…"

House gulped a bit and forced himself to keep walking.

#######

"When can I come over and see him?"

It was two weeks into Cuddy's maternity leave. House had been patient, waiting for her to call him. She didn't.

So he had finally taken matters into his own hands.

"Soon," she said.

"How soon?"

"I told you, we could talk about visitation rights after you completed rehab."

"I'm not talking about visitation, I'm talking about a _visit_."

"I don't know…We're still getting acclimated here. Your presence might be disruptive. To Rachel, too."

"Cuddy, I want to see my fucking son!"

In anger management they talked a lot about recognizing your own triggers—walking away from a situation before it escalated into anger. (When he wasn't rolling his eyes at all the stupidity during class, he was actually absorbing some of the lessons.) Of course, Cuddy and Sam were like one big trigger to him at this point.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I didn't mean to yell."

"No," she said thoughtfully. "You're right. It's time. What are you doing right now?"

"Waiting for you to tell me it's okay to come visit my son."

"Then come visit your son."

#####

She came to the door with Sam in her arms.

"Shhh" she said. "He just woke up from a nap."

"Wow," House said, peering in at him. "He's doubled in size."

"Yeah, babies have been known to do that," Cuddy chuckled, but House was too busy staring at Sam to really hear her.

"I was just going to put him in the cradle—your cradle, actually—and make dinner. Wanna hold him instead?"

House nodded, and she handed Sam to him. He held the baby cautiously, shifting his arms, supporting Sam's head awkwardly, looking as nervous and happy and smitten as any new father would.

"Hi little dude," he whispered. "I'm your dad."

"Let's go with House," she corrected. Then, seeing his hurt faced, she added: "For now at least."

He nodded, then turned his attention back to Sam.

"Who's a big boy?" he cooed. "Who's the bravest, strongest, smartest boy of them all?"

She smiled at that, despite herself. "You going to be okay alone with him while I cook?"

"Go," House said. "Shoo."

He took the baby and sat down with him on the couch.

"He's got an iron grip!" he yelled boastfully into the kitchen, as Sam clutched his finger. "He's really going to come in handy when I can't open a jar."

She laughed, continued cooking.

Just then, hearing the familiar voice, Rachel came barreling out of her room.

"House!" she said, jumping up on the couch and hugging his neck. "It's really you! Mama, House is here! House is here!"

"I know, sweetie," Cuddy said.

"Hey shorty," House said, feeling absurdly choked up.

"That's my baby brother Sam!" Rachel said proudly, finally letting go of House's neck.

"We've met," House said.

"He's sooooo cute!"

"Takes after big sis."

She smiled, shyly, pleased with the compliment. Then she made a few vague cooing noises in Sam's direction and instantly got bored.

"Come play with me!" she demanded, tugging at House's pants leg.

"Rachel, let him visit with Sam," Cuddy scolded from the kitchen.

"Tell ya what?" House said to Rachel. "Why don't you go into your room and draw me a picture of a super hero. Then when you're done, you can show it to me."

Rachel immediately switched to negotiation mode:

"What kind of superhero?"

"A girl, obviously."

"What else?"

"Wears a cape."

"What else?"

"Has a shield."

"What else?"

"Kicks butt."

"What else?"

"I dunno, Rach. That's up to you."

She nodded, satisfied with her assignment.

"And wash up, too," Cuddy said. "Dinner's in 20 minutes."

Cuddy watched House from the kitchen, remembering how good he had always been with Rachel.

"She missed you," she said.

"I missed the hell out of her, too."

She went back to chopping vegetables, pausing once to check on House. He was kissing Sam's big toe.

"Rach! Dinner is ready!" she yelled.

Rachel came out of her room, proudly wielding the drawing. She put it on the coffee table in front of House.

"Are those lasers?" House said, peering at the drawing.

"Yup!" Rachel said.

"Good call."

Cuddy came out of the kitchen and reached for Sam, who had fallen asleep in House's arms.

"Thanks for coming over," she said.

"Thanks for letting me come over," he said.

"But House is staying for dinner, right?" Rachel said, confused. Then she turned to House: "We're having rice and chicken and vegetables! But no mushrooms, because mushrooms are fungus and fungus is gross."

House hesitated, looked over at Cuddy.

"House has other plans for dinner, sweetie. Maybe next time."

House swallowed hard.

"Right," he said. "Sorry. But I'll see you soon, okay?"

"Okay," Rachel said, slumping her shoulders somewhat dejectedly.

"Can I take this?" House said, picking the drawing up off the coffee table.

"You really want it?"

"Totally."

"Okay," she said, with a grin. "Then you can have it."

"Thanks, kid."

######

After she put Rachel to sleep, Cuddy lay in bed, with Sam on her lap, reflecting on House's visit.

Wilson had once asked if there was a thaw.

Tonight, it felt like all the ice had melted away and she was left with nothing but a puddle of goo.

It was almost uncanny seeing House interact with Sam—the most cynical man in the world nuzzling and cuddling his baby boy. But of course he would be that way. Underneath all those layers of snark and cynicism, she knew House to be a very sensitive guy. It was almost like he needed those extra layers of protective armor _because_ he was so sensitive.

Even the way he had dealt with Rachel, making sure she didn't feel neglected, asking if he could take home that ridiculous drawing—he didn't want that drawing, but he knew that she would _want_ him to want it.

_Don't do this_, she scolded herself. _Don't get sucked back in._

Whenever feelings of warmth for House snuck up on her— when he built that beautiful cradle or demanded a picture that first night in the maternity ward or today, the way he acted with Sam and Rachel—she just had to remind herself: He's an addict and an abuser. And he_ drove a fucking car through your house_.

But she was finding it increasingly difficult to ward off the tender feelings for him. (More than that: Romantic feelings too. Because what was sexier, really, then seeing a new father fall in love with his son—your son?)

The key obviously, was to avoid him as much as possible.

_To be continued…_


	4. Chapter 4

Cuddy was home, attempting, in vain, to concentrate on the latest issue of _The New Yorker_ as Rachel was leaping from couch to couch and sliding across the floor on pillows.

"I'm Laser Girl!" she shouted, dive-bombing off the couch, pretending to shoot lasers from her wrists.

"Careful, Rach, you're going to hurt yourself. Again."

Rachel giggled.

"House says I'm a like a Roller Debbie girl."

"Roller Derby," Cuddy corrected. Then she looked at her curiously.

"When did House tell you that?"

Rachel's little cheeks got blotchy.

"I…don't know," she said, looking at her feet. She had the same sheepish look on her face she got when she snuck a cookie before dinner.

"You haven't seen House since that day you first drew Laser Girl, right?"

Rachel blinked, looked down.

"Right," she said. Her cheeks were now a complex shade of crimson.

"Rachel, are you lying to me?"

"Yes," she admitted solemnly. As always, Rachel couldn't extend a lie for any significant period of time. (Cuddy's brilliant interrogation strategy was asking her twice.)

"_When_ did you see him?"

"Um, I don't know."

"Yesterday?"

"No."

"The day before yesterday?"

Rachel nodded.

"Did he take you someplace or did you stay here?"

"Here."

"Where was Marina?"

"In nana's room"—the guest room. "House said she could take a load."

"Take a load _off_?"

Rachel wiped her nose with her sleeve.

"Uh huh."

"How many times has House come over?"

Rachel held up three fingers.

"_Three_ times? Rach, you know it's wrong to have a strange man come into this house when I'm not home."

"He's not a strange man, mama, he's House!"

Cuddy rolled her eyes, then called Marina to get some more information. House had, indeed, come over three times in the past two weeks, and stayed each time for about two hours. Marina hadn't been concerned, because Rachel obviously knew him so well. (It also didn't hurt that House was fluent in Spanish.)

"When are you expecting him next?" Cuddy said.

"He said he'd be back on Thursday. Please don't be mad at me, Dr. Cuddy! He told me you said it was okay."

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to let you go," Cuddy said, with regret, but firmly.

"But Dr. Cuddy! I'm so sorry. He tricked me! I thought it was okay. Rachel seems to love him so much and he was so good with the bebé!"

"I'm sorry Marina. This is just…unacceptable. I'll give you three month's severance and references, but you simply can't be my nanny anymore."

Marina sniffled, but bravely didn't cry.

"I'm very sorry that I let you down, Dr. Cuddy."

"You can come over on Saturday and say goodbye to the kids and pick up your paycheck," Cuddy said. Then she hung up the phone, closed her eyes, and said under her breath, "Shit."

######

On Friday, at about 4 pm, House rang Cuddy's doorbell. He was in a good mood, jangling his keys in his pockets with impatient anticipation.

He was surprised to see an elderly woman, dyed red hair, with a short, somewhat squat physique, answer the door.

"Oh," he said, frowning, peering inside. "Where's Marina?"

"She's not here," the woman said. "I'm Theresa. The agency sent me."

"Oh, uh…well, crap. Marina knows me. I'm a friend of the family. Dr. House?"

"Come on in, Dr. House. I've been expecting you," Theresa said.

House was so relieved, he didn't even process the strangeness of that statement.

"Where's Rach?" he said. Usually at this point, Rachel was already skidding across the room and into his arms, shouting, "I'm Laser Girl!"

"She's at a playdate," Theresa said.

"And Sam?"

"In the nursery."

He cocked his head toward the room.

"May I?"

"Go right ahead."

"Thanks Theresa. Why don't you go into the guest room, take a load off? I've got things under control."

He was practically whistling as he made his way to the nursery.

"Where's my favorite little guy?" he said, opening the door.

He peered in the crib, but Sam wasn't there. Then he looked up: Cuddy was sitting in an easy chair, Sam on her lap.

He actually jumped and let out a little yelp when he saw them.

"Jesus woman, you gave me a heart attack!" he said.

"A heart attack will be the least of your problems once I'm done with you," she said.

"I can explain. . ." he said.

"Oh, this should be good."

"Okay, I can't explain. I mean, it is what you think it is. I wanted to see Sam. And Rachel."

"So you thought breaking into my house was your best option?"

"First of all, I didn't break in. I was let in, every time, by the very pleasant Marina."

"Who I had to fire, by the way."

"No you didn't!"

"Yes I did. Of course I did."

"If you fired her then I'm going to have to hire her. Which is awkward because I have no children at home," he said. Then, he added, musingly: "By any chance, do you know if she can do medical massages?"

"She can't just hand my children over to the care of a complete stranger."

He balked a bit.

"But I'm not a complete stranger, am I? I'm Sam's father."

"You didn't tell her that, did you?" Cuddy said, accusingly.

"No! Of course not. I told her I was a friend of the family. I tricked her. I acted like you and I were chatting on the phone. I'd relay messages from you, like, 'Cuddy said not to give Rachel too many sweets' or 'Cuddy said to tell you she's going to be home late'—which was always a safe bet, by the way. You know how devious I can be. Please don't punish Marina. Rachel adores her."

"I'll think about it," Cuddy said. Being able to outwit House wasn't one of the requirements of the job, after all. "That still doesn't let you off the hook."

"I got sick of waiting for you to call and tell me I could see Sam again. So I took matters into my own hands."

"If you think this is the way to re-establish trust, show me that you've grown or changed in any tangible way, you are sorely mistaken. But then again, you didn't think you'd get caught, did you?"

"I thought—_I hoped_—that you would come to your senses and let me see my boy and I wouldn't need to sneak around any more."

"I'm so angry at you right now, I could scream."

"You kind of _have_ been yelling. You're upsetting Sam. He looks colicky."

"Get out, House."

"C'mon, Cuddy. Let's talk about this."

"There's nothing to talk about. You screwed up—again."

"Please, don't do this. I'm sorry, okay? I made a mistake." The tiniest hint of desperation had crept into his voice.

"Go!"

"Okay, I'll go. But put yourself in my shoes. He's my son, Cuddy. My son."

She glared at him.

Realizing he was making no headway, his shoulders slumped. He walked over to where Cuddy was sitting, leaned down, and kissed Sam on the top of his head.

"I'll let myself out," he muttered.

######

After he left, Cuddy called Marina and told her that she could have her job back.

This time, Marina did cry, gulping her gratitude through loud tears.

"Thank you, Dr. Cuddy. I promise I'll never do anything like this again."

"I know you won't Marina. I'll see you on Monday."

The next day, she had lunch with Wilson.

"You're not going to believe what House has been doing," she said.

"Breaking into your house so he can visit with Sam?" Wilson offered, wincing a bit.

"You knew?"

"Of course I knew. House needs to talk to _someone_."

"And you . . .encouraged this behavior?"

Wilson gave a half-shrug, took a bit of his roast beef sandwich.

"Not encourage. But I didn't exactly discourage it either. I understand where he's coming from."

"He's just doing the same thing he always does. Taking what he wants, when he wants it. Tricking people. Lying to get his way. He's reckless."

"He wants to see his son," Wilson said.

"Keep your voice down," Cuddy hissed, looking around.

"He want to see Sam," Wilson said, more quietly this time.

"He has two more months of rehab, right? I told him that we would set up a visitation schedule then."

"So he's supposed to wait until Sam is, what, six months old before he has any sort of relationship with him? That's patently unfair."

"He's lucky I'm giving him any access to Sam at all. Do you realize how easy it would be for me to get sole custody? House is an addict with a history of violence."

"I know you don't see him that way," Wilson said, gently. Cuddy ran her fork through her salad, but said nothing.

"Remember when you told me that House was only pretending to care about Sam to get back in your . . . good graces?" Wilson said, diplomatically.

Cuddy nodded.

"You know that's not true, right?"

"I suppose."

"How is sneaking into your house when you're at work a strategy for getting on your good side?"

She shrugged.

"Okay, fair enough."

"House told me he knows he blew it with you. That you're never going to be able to love him again. He accepts the consequences of his behavior. But he wants to see his boy."

Cuddy took a piece of tuna, speared it in half. Then quartered it. Finally, she took a tiny bite, but it tasted metallic in her mouth.

"How's he doing with the rehab?" she said, finally.

"He's doing great. Ten months drug free. He told me it feels different this time, because he's doing it for Sam."

Cuddy nodded, put her fingers to her brow.

"Imagine Cuddy," Wilson started. "Imagine if someone was trying to keep Sam from you. You'd move mountains to see him wouldn't you?"

"Planets," Cuddy admitted.

"Well, it's the same for House."

######

That night she called House at home.

"Am I fired?" he asked, when he picked up.

"No, I'm calling to…apologize," she said.

"Apologize?"

"It was wrong of me to keep Sam from you. I shouldn't have. I'm the one who drove you to your insanely reckless, irresponsible, and assholic behavior."

"This is a strange apology," House said.

"I think it's time you started spending more time with your son," she said.

She could hear a tiny intake of breath on the other end.

"Cuddy, I. . ."

"How about tomorrow? 3 pm? You can take him to the park."

"Really?" he said, still in a state of some disbelief.

"Yes," she said. "It's time."

He arrived the next day at 3 pm, on the dot.

Cuddy had already packed up Sam's stroller, his bottle, his stuffed hedgehog (it had proven to be a favorite of his, despite her attempt to steer him toward a stuffed duck that Arlene had bought him), his sun cap, an extra blanket. The diaper bag was tucked into the bottom of the stroller—"I already changed him, but just in case"—as was a bag filled with his binky and some squeaky toys.

"That's a lot of. . .stuff for a walk in the park," House said, assessing his booty.

"You'll thank me later," she joked.

Cuddy had suggested the park because it was only a few blocks away. Also, there were lots of benches for resting. Walking long distances wasn't one of House's strongpoints.

She looked at him now. He looked nervous but happy, smoothing Sam's silky blond hair, making sure he was strapped in securely, fussing needlessly with his blanket.

He turned to her.

"What if we see someone I know?" he said. "I'm not exactly known for my love of babies and puppies and rainbows."

She had already considered that, but didn't see any way around it.

"No one from work lives around here," she said. "And if you do see someone, just tell them you're babysitting for me. People know we used to be close."

_Used to be_.

"Okay," House said, nodding.

Rachel must've heard his voice, as she suddenly came charging out of her room.

"Pow! Pow, pow!" she said, shooting imaginary lasers from her wrists.

House clutched his chest in mock agony. "Good thing I wore my laser-proof vest," he said. "Otherwise, I would've been a goner. You have excellent wrist aim."

Rachel grinned at him.

"Where's Sammy going?" she said, noting her baby brother loaded for bear.

"House is taking him to the park," Cuddy said.

"Can I come? Can I come?" Rachel began jumping up and down excitedly.

But before House could answer, Cuddy stepped in: "House promised to take Sam so I could spend some alone time with you!" she said brightly. "Doesn't that sound like fun?"

"Yeah," Rachel said, but she shot a somewhat longing look in House's direction.

Then Cuddy turned to House. "5:30 okay?"

"It's great," he said.

He suddenly looked a little nervous.

"I guess we're. . .off," he said.

On instinct, Cuddy gave him a reassuring pat on the back.

"You'll do great," she said. And she and Rachel waved as House and Sam made their way cautiously down the driveway.

Cuddy gulped, ever so slightly.

Technically, House was a flight risk. He could kidnap Sam, take him away from her, never looking back. She had tried to keep Sam from him once. Who's to say she wouldn't do it again? He might believe that his back was against a wall. But she had to have faith in him. She had no choice—she had to believe. He wouldn't do that to her.

She bent toward Rachel, "Shall we play Barbie ER?" she said.

Rachel nodded enthusiastically.

Barbie ER was a game that consisted of Barbie coming to the hospital with some ailment—almost always a "broken" something, although Rachel occasionally got confused ("you can't have a broken kidney, Rach")—and Rachel playing the role of check-in nurse, attending nurse, anesthesiologist, head physician, surgeon, hospital administrator, and Barbie's best friend.

Rachel loved the game, because it was somehow what she imagined Mommy did at work (and who was Cuddy to dispel her daughter of the belief that her mommy was an all-purpose hospital super hero?). Cuddy tried to be engaged as much possible while she played with her ("Tell Barbie to count backwards from 10 so we can be sure the anesthesia is working"), but she was distracted, worried about House.

_He'll come back_, she kept telling herself. _He's the same man you used to love, the one who would never intentionally hurt you_.

In order to let House fully enter Sam's life, she had forced herself to make peace with his criminal behavior. If she believed that House was a bad man, a dangerous one, she couldn't allow him to be near her son. But she didn't believe that. The night of the car accident was an aberration. House was many things: Immature, selfish, rule-breaking—but intentionally hurtful wasn't one of them.

Still, she found herself making furtive glances at the clock.

4:00. 4:17. 5:10. 5:25. And then, 5:30.

Where the fuck was he?

"What's wrong mama?" Rachel said, noticing her mother's pallid skin.

"Nothing sweetie," Cuddy said, gulping. "That's an excellent leg cast."

At 5:39, there was a knock on the door. It was House, looking a bit flustered, with the baby, who was now asleep in the stroller.

"I know. I'm sorry. I screwed up. I lost track of time," he said, slightly out of breath, as though being nine minutes late was grounds for immediate banishment from Sam's life.

"You're fine," she said, feeling ridiculous for having been so worried. "Did you have fun?"

"We had an awesome time. Didn't we, Sam? Didn't we?" (Hearing House speak in goofy, singsong babytalk was always going to be jarring to her—and of course a little heartwarming, too.)

"What did you do?"

"I don't know," he shrugged. "We walked. We sat. We stared meaningfully at each other. We were quite a hit with the other moms, though. If I'd known what chick magnets cute babies were, I would've gotten one a lot sooner."

He gave her a tentative grin and she smiled back at him, tolerantly.

"So when can I do this again?" he said.

"I don't know. When do you want to?"

"Tomorrow?"

"How about Wednesday after work? You can . . .come for dinner."

His eyes widened a bit.

"I'd love that," he said.

#####

So he came for dinner on Wednesday. Mostly, he talked to Rachel. But when he and Cuddy spoke, it was strictly about Sam ("Dr. Faraday says he's in the 80th weight percentile for his age") or the hospital ("don't forget to fill out that insurance claim I put on your desk.")

On Saturday, he took Sam back to the park and the following Tuesday he came for dinner again.

That was when Rachel looked at House, who was wiping dribbled milk off Sam's chin, and said thoughtfully, "Are you Sam's daddy?"

House's mouth dropped open. In a bit of a panic, he turned to Cuddy, who was regarding Rachel with a mixture of shock and admiration.

"Why would you say that, sweetie?" she asked.

"I don't know," Rachel said. "He acts like Sam's daddy."

"The thing is, Rach. . ." House started. "Some grownup things are very compli. . ."

"Yes," Cuddy said plainly, much to House's surprise. "House is Sam's daddy. We were going to wait to tell you when you got older, but since you're a very clever girl and you guessed on your own, I can tell you that it's true."

Rachel tried to process this news.

"Is House _my_ daddy?" she asked.

"No sweetie," Cuddy said gently. "He's not your daddy."

"But I wish I was," House offered. Cuddy looked at him, then swallowed a bit.

"Is Uncle Wilson my daddy?"

"No, Rach. He's not your daddy either."

"Do I have a daddy?"

House saw Cuddy flinch the tiniest bit. She had been expecting these questions one day—just not today.

"You do Rach. You have a daddy who loved you so much he realized that he couldn't take care of you," she said. "So he gave you to me. And made me the happiest mommy in the whole wide world."

"Why couldn't my daddy take care of me?" Rachel said.

"Because he was too young. And because he knew that you and I were meant to be together."

It was a half truth and only half the story, but Rachel bought it for now.

"I'm glad my daddy gave me to you," she said.

"Me too, Rach. Me too." And she squeezed Rachel's hand.

When he left that night, House put his hand on Cuddy's shoulder.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm. . .fine, I think." She pressed her hand against her own chest. "My heart was pounding. Could you tell?"

He looked at her, with unmasked awe.

"You did great," he said. "You did everything perfectly. Just like you always do."

Her eyes became moist. "Thanks House. You did great, too."  
#######

Two weeks later, there was an emergency meeting of the board: There was a class-action lawsuit involving faulty stents, and the board was trying to figure out how to proceed: A settlement would be quiet, but costly. If they went to court they ran the risk of public backlash. The meeting would likely go late. Cuddy needed a babysitter.

She had tried all the usual suspects: Her mother, Julia, Marina, even Wilson. None were available.

She finally called House.

"I know this is incredibly last minute, but are you free tonight?"

"'Are you free tonight?'—the most dreaded question in the English language," House cracked. "It rarely ends with courtside tickets to a Knicks game."

"The thing is, I need a babysit—."

"I'll do it," he said, before she even finished the sentence.

He arrived an hour later, in jeans and a faded blue Oxford shirt, looking way more relaxed than he had just a few weeks earlier.

"I charge $9.50 an hour," he cracked. "Unless you don't have HBO. In which case, my rates double."

She laughed.

He assessed her outfit.

"If you're about to go on a hot date, I might consider something a little less Boardroom Cuddy and a little more Bedroom Cuddy."

"I actually have a board meeting, so I guess I nailed it."

"A board meeting?" he said, looking at his watch. "At this hour? If I didn't know you better, I'd say you were overly committed to your job."

"Ha ha. I should be home by 9. I hope," she said.

But she wasn't. The meeting dragged on for hours—all those blowhards, clearing their throats, making their big pronouncements, not because they had anything to contribute, just because they loved the sound of their own voices. The meeting didn't end until 11:30—and even then, the issue wasn't resolved. Another 7 pm meeting was hastily scheduled for tomorrow.

When Cuddy got home, the house was quiet. She peered into Rachel's room. She was asleep in her big girl bed, wearing a mismatched pair of pajamas (striped bottoms, Hello Kitty top), curled up in a ball. Sam, however, was not in his crib. It was a testament to how far she and House had grown in terms of trust that she didn't even panic for a second. She made her way to the guest room, where House was lying, asleep, on the bed, with Sam lying asleep across his chest, rising and falling—as though he were being gently rocked to sleep by his own father's breath.

Cuddy watched them for a second, blinked away a tear. They were beautiful together, that much she couldn't deny.

She lifted Sam off House's chest—House stirred, but didn't waken—and placed him in his crib. Then she returned to the guestroom, watched House sleep for a few minutes. She felt a pang—tenderness, longing, lust.

"House," she whispered.

He popped up, quickly, like a soldier waking to the sound of Reveille.

"Where's Sam?" he said anxiously.

"He's fine, House," she said. "I put him in his crib."

"Oh, I . . .must've fallen asleep," he said. He rubbed his eyes, sat next to her on the edge of the bed.

"How was your meeting?"

"Very productive and an excellent use of my time," she said.

"I'm picking up on some sarcasm there," he said.

She chuckled.

"Round two is tomorrow. You up for it?"

"I don't think the board would want me there."

"I meant babysitting," she said, swatting him.

He smiled.

"Providing my leg has fully recovered from another rousing game of Laser Girl vs. Crutch Boy," he said, rubbing his thigh. "I'd love to."

"Sorry about that. She's going through a bit of a daredevil phase."

"I love it," House said. "And just watch, Sam will be bookish and play the cello."

She looked at him. The lights of the room were dim and they were sitting closely—always drawn to each other physically, in some subconscious way—and they were talking about their son and her daughter, whom he loved, and it all felt so intimate and inevitable and right.

"You're good with them," she said.

"I adore them," he said.

"I know you do."

House sighed.

"Remember when we had that pregnancy scare? About six months into our relationship?"

"How could I forget? I seem to recall that I blamed you, although God knows why. . ." she said.

He smiled.

"I'm sure it was my fault somehow," he said.

She chuckled.

"I remember. . .that I was so torn," he said reflectively. "Because I didn't want a kid of my own. Never had. But I thought that if we had a child together, you'd never leave me. We'd be connected—for life."

"Oh House. . ."

He swallowed a bit.

"But the truth is, I was wrong about wanting kids. The minute I saw Sam, I knew that some part of me had always wanted this. A chance to be a good a dad. A chance to love…unconditionally."

"You're a great father," she said. "There was so much hope in Rachel's voice when she asked if you were her dad. It was her secret wish. I'm sure it has been for some time."

"I would've adopted her," he said, earnestly. "If we'd had a baby before all the…well, you know. I would've married you and adopted Rachel. It was _my_ secret wish—I was just afraid that I'd suck at it."

"You don't suck at it," she said. "You're great at it."

He smiled at her sadly.

She put her head on his shoulder.

"So many regrets…" she said, quietly.

"Yeah, but all my mistakes—"

"_Our_ mistakes," she corrected.

"—led us to Sam. So I'd change nothing."

She closed her eyes, breathed in his scent.

"Neither would I," she murmured.

######

The next board meeting ended a little earlier. 10 pm. They decided to settle out of court. It would be costly, but worth it.

When Cuddy got home, House was sitting on the couch, watching some sort of ridiculous TV show where giant trucks drove over icy lakes.

He flipped it off when he saw her.

"How were the kids?" she asked.

"Adorably exhausting. Or if you prefer, exhaustingly adorable," he said.

"So the usual?"

"Yep. And your board meeting?"

"We decided to settle."

"I'm not a fan of settling, myself," he said, eyeing her. "I'm more of a 'go big or go home' kind of guy. But I'm sure it was the right thing to do."

He got up from the couch, stretched in a somewhat exaggerated way.

"I guess I should go," he said.

"Why the rush? I'm going to have a drink. Care to join me?"

"I can't. They frown on it in rehab," he said.

She put her hand to her mouth, embarrassed.

"I'm so sorry House. I forgot."

He shrugged.

"I'm addicted to pain pills, not alcohol, but they're not big on making such distinctions."

"Club soda with lime?"

"Why not?" he said, sitting back down.

She poured herself a glass of wine and made him the club soda.

She sat beside him.

"Thanks for watching them these last two nights," she said, taking a sip.

"Any time," he said. "Seriously."

She rested her head against the couch.

"It's been nice to spend so much time with you these past few weeks," she said. "I didn't realize how much I. . .missed it."

He eyed her, cautiously.

"I did," he said. "I'm acutely aware of how much I miss you every single day."

She stroked his hand a bit, then brought it to her mouth, kissed his palm.

He continued to watch her, warily.

She put one of his fingers in her mouth, sucked it languorously.

"What are you doing?" he said.

"I don't know," she said. "Do you want me to stop?"

"No," he said.

Now her mouth moved to his wrist, and began to make its way up his arm.

Then she climbed onto his lap, straddled him. They began to kiss, and he pulled her toward him, more forcefully than she might have expected, which turned her on even more. Their tongues were twirling in each other's mouths and his hands were gripping her tightly, on her waist, her ass, and she began to unbutton his shirt, fixating, as she often did on the stretch of red skin on his clavicle—a mysterious turn on. It was only when she unsnapped his jeans—the bulge in his pants actually looked painful—that he seemed to have a sudden change of heart.

"We can't do this," he said, physically lifting her off his lap and placing her back on the couch beside her.

She was out of breath, on fire, turned on beyond belief. This was a completely unexpected turn of events.

"But why?" she said.

"Because we. . .can't. Things are just starting to get good between us. Sex will screw things up. It always does."

"I thought sex made things better," she cracked, going for his jeans again.

He stopped her.

"Cuddy, I'm serious."

"So am I," she said.

He stood up from the couch.

"I don't think you understand how hard this has been for me. It's been torture. Everything I ever wanted right there in front of me, but completely out of my reach. It was like I was some sort of prisoner in my own life—subsisting on whatever scraps of comfort and kindness you threw at me. It was a hell of my own creation. I understand that. But it was a hell all the same."

"You said things were getting better," she protested. "They _are_ getting better. It takes time. It takes trust."

"Which is why we can't have sex."

"But I want you."

"You can't just climb on my dick anytime you get bored."

She recoiled, hurt.

"That's a terrible thing to say!"

He looked down.

"It's how we made Sam, right? You needed a distraction. Do you remember what you said to me after that night? That it was a mistake. That it was never going to happen again."

"That was like a lifetime ago. We're raising a son together. I feel close to you. . ."

"You haven't even told anyone that Sam is mine!" he shouted, a bit of anger creeping into his voice. "You're ashamed of me."

"No, House. . . it's not like that. I was confused. It was such a strange and volatile time. Abigail's death. The sex. Your surgery. The car crash. My pregnancy. Sam's birth. My head was spinning. In some ways, my head still is spinning."

"You turn on and off your feelings for me at will. But it's different for me. I've never stopped loving you. Not for one second of my miserable life. And I can't do this again. I just. . .can't."

He took his coat and headed to the door.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"No House," she replied. "I'm the one who's sorry."

She closed her eyes tightly. When she opened them, he was gone.

########

The next day was Cuddy's quarterly State of the Hospital Address. She touched on the usual things: the update on the class-action lawsuit, the new vending machines in the staff lounge, a prestigious award that one of the doctors had won. Then she paused for a second and looked directly at House.

"If you don't mind, I'm going to end this address on a personal note."

There were some murmurs in the audience. This was a total break from protocol.

"As you know, five months ago I gave birth to my son, Sam. There's been a lot of speculation about the father. I'd like to clear that up now. Sam's father is Dr. Gregory House."

The murmurs now turned into something of a commotion, with most eyes shooting immediately to House, whose mouth was hanging open—he looked to be in a bit of shock. Several seats over, a male nurse rolled his eyes, reached into his wallet and handed a $100 bill to Nurse Jeffrey, who mouthed, "Told ya," and looked smug.

"We weren't going to share the details of Sam's paternity, as it's a private family matter, but the rumors were so out of control, I felt a need to share this with you," Cuddy continued. "As for the nature of my relationship with House or the details of Sam's custody all I can say to that is"—she looked up somewhat mischievously—"none of your damn business."

The audience laughed.

"Thank you. And thanks again for an excellent quarter."

She stepped off the podium.

Cuddy wanted to go to House right away, but he was mobbed by curious well-wishers, who were congratulating him and giving him good-natured shit and insisting that they'd known all along.

"I'd give you a cigar," Taub said, "But I don't have any. Would you settle for this pen?"

"Gregory House, a father," Foreman said. "That's going to take some getting used to."

As for Chase, he merely slapped House on the arm. "You dog," he said, with a sly smile. Then, for good measure, he slapped him again.

There was a small clatch of female doctors huddled together, and although Cuddy couldn't totally hear them, she could tell by the somewhat critical looks they were flashing in her direction, that they disapproved. She understood. It was impossible to explain what she and House had together—she could barely explain it to herself. It was . . . love. Poets had spent lifetimes trying to nail down its elusive qualities.

Later, House made his way to her office, where she was standing by the bookcase, watering a plant.

"You told everyone," he said, a slightly baffled smile on his face.

"As a wise man once said, Go big or go home."

"It feels good to be out of the closet—so to speak," he said.

"Yeah," she said. "It does."

He stepped up to her.

"The lengths you will go to have sex with me," he said.

She laughed.

"What can I say, you're a good lay," she cracked.

He stepped closer, close enough to kiss her, which he wanted to do today and forever, but first he had to be sure.

"I want us to be a family," he said, taking her hand. "A real family. Is that too much to ask for?"

"Of course not," she said, looking up at him. "It's what we already are."

THE END


End file.
